Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
She smiled, a small, tight movement of her lips. “Of course. I know things are tight until November.”
The drive to my mother’s Tudor home in Broadmoor took twenty minutes through the midday traffic. Evelyn sat in her high-backed armchair by the bay window, a green wool shawl draped over her shoulders.
“He is sleeping with her, Mother,” I said, setting my teacup down so hard the porcelain clicked against the saucer. “And they are talking about the trust.”
Evelyn did not flinch, though her hand tightened on the arm of her chair, her rings catching the dull light from the garden. “Your father spent forty years building that lumber business so you would never have to ask anyone for permission to live.”
“Richard has the transfer papers ready,” I said. “He wants the five million moved into his firm’s development account.”
“You cannot sign them,” Evelyn said, her voice thin but sharp. “Do you remember the intake forms he had you sign for that grief specialist after the third miscarriage?”
I looked up, trying to connect the memory of that dark winter. “Doctor Mercer? Richard said she was the best clinic partner in the city.”
